


I need you so much closer

by Gorgeousgreymatter



Series: Always Female Stiles 'verse: I will run you like a thread [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Always Female Stiles Stilinski, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cis Female Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale Takes Care of Stiles Stilinski, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, F/M, Female Stiles Stilinski, Good Alpha Derek Hale, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Kneeling, Making Love, Mates Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Non-Sexual Submission, Porn with Feelings, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:47:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24383776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorgeousgreymatter/pseuds/Gorgeousgreymatter
Summary: “You're drunk.”Stiles slowly cracks one eye open but doesn't turn her head. She can visualize the whole thing, the look of disapproval on his face, even though technically she can only actually see half of it.“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Stiles says. “I never would have noticed unless you said something.”
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Always Female Stiles 'verse: I will run you like a thread [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1719364
Comments: 6
Kudos: 356





	I need you so much closer

**Author's Note:**

> All is safe, sane, consensual. Title from Transatlanticism by Death Cab for Cutie.
> 
> Please read and review. TYSM c:

I need you so much closer

Somehow, even after nine years, the date still manages to sneak up on her. Even now, when Stiles feels, for the first time in a long time, remarkably settled. Happy. Dare she say – _calm_. And she thinks maybe that's why it hurts even worse, the element of surprise. As brutal as a slap right to the face. It doesn't take much to send her hurtling back there: a stray thought, a memory, the strange, phantom scent of her mother's shampoo, and suddenly she's nine-years-old, crouched, crying and shaking in the hallway outside of her mother's hospital room, waiting, always waiting for her to get back up, but she never does. For a long time after that, everything had fallen apart. Her father had tried to help, done what little he could. There had been doctors, seemingly unending visits to psychiatrists and counselors and sleep therapists, pills that helped only when she took enough to almost be too many. Most of the time, they just seemed to keep her trapped in the same loop of nightmare after nightmare after nightmare.The panic attacks were always bad, but the night terrors were the worst. Sometimes they made her thrash so hard she’d wake up bruised and bloody from where she’d clawed at herself, her throat hoarse and sore from screaming, yelling for someone who would never come.

Nothing had ever helped, not the way Derek did. As cliché as she totally knows it is, she feels safe. Safer than she ever remembers feeling, and it wasn't just because of the whole what-big-teeth-you-have thing, even though that was definitely a bonus. It was like instinctual, like some pure _biology_ _shit_ , like her body just knew his on a molecular level, his scent, the exact way his skin felt against hers, knew it even at her most vulnerable, knew him even in her sleep. Yeah, she is the first to admit she isn't in the most tip-top shape in terms of mental health compared to a lot of (okay, most) people, but being with Derek makes her feel almost...normal. The most normal she's ever felt.

Whatever the fuck normal means when your fiance is a werewolf.

So yeah, despite all of that, it still manages to sneak up on her, to fuck everything up like it always did, Like _Stiles_ always did. Because today is the anniversary her mother's death. Of her dying right in front of her face.

And Stiles...Stiles is drunk.

It's pretty much the same thing she's done every year since she was old enough to see substance-abuse-based escapism as a plausible coping mechanism. Basically ever since she was able to pilfer from her dad's liquor stash. Besides, it's not like her dad isn't currently in the same state she is; he's just slumped over some bar stool eating the fried foods she never lets him eat, and throwing back whiskey shots instead of passed out at home, like she is. It's the unspoken rule of the Stilinksi household – everybody gets a free pass on Death Day.

If Derek was a normal boyfriend – fuck, _fiance, goddammit_ – she would've just avoided him. Dodged his calls and texts, you know, _ghosted_ him, so he wouldn't ever have to see her like this. Because fuck, Stiles doesn't want to even see herself like this. But it's kind of impossible to do that when you're never left alone, not really. Can't hide from someone who won't let you. So she's drunk, starfished across her bedspread and waiting to hear that thud of Derek sliding her window open, because it's simply inevitable. When she finally hears it, the squeak of the sill being forced open, she manages to get herself at least semi-upright.

“You're drunk.”

Stiles slowly cracks one eye open but doesn't turn her head. She can visualize the whole thing, the look of disapproval on his face, even though technically she can only actually see half of it.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Stiles says. “I never would have noticed unless you said something.”

Derek is scowling, but that's nothing new. It's like second nature for him at this point, particularly where she's involved. She crawls across the bedspread and straight into his lap, because she can't think of anything else to say and nowhere she'd rather be. Might as well commit.

Derek stares at her all the time. It's like his thing, but the way he's watching her now, all concerned and shit _,_ the only thing it's doing is making her angry.

“Can you please tell your eyebrows to stop judging me?” She doesn't bother waiting for the inevitable _Stiles, I don't have any idea what you're talking about because I'm practically an alien_ routine and instead just slams her mouth against his because that's what she wants, that's what she needs, and this is the only way she knows how to get it.

…

Usually kissing Stiles is all it takes to get Derek going. Not even that, honestly, because just looking at her and smelling her was usually enough to drive him absolutely crazy. But she's smelled wrong since he got here – sour like lemons, or milk that's gone bad – nothing at all like her normal sweet-as-candy scent, and all it's doing is confusing him.

She's kissing him like she wants to crawl inside of his mouth, and the pungent scent of whatever booze she drank is starting to make his eyes water. Already she's pulling at his clothes, rolling her hips against his, and normally he'd be close to tearing her apart at this point, but _she smells wrong_.

“Stiles,” Derek says, but she doesn't acknowledge she's heard him, just presses herself somehow harder against him. “Stiles, _stop_.” Finally, Derek manages to grab her wrists and push her off long enough for him to breathe and get the words out. “Stop trying to take your clothes off and talk to me.”

Stiles only pulls away long enough to scoff. “Fine, we'll just remove the necessary stuff. Hurry up, I need you to fuck me.” She doesn't stop, just keeps kissing him, and then her hands are suddenly messing with the buttons on her shirt and trying to lift his up and off at the same time

“Stiles,” Derek growls, and this time he uses his full strength to keep her upright and away. “I'm not going to fuck you tonight, so just stop.” Of course he isn't. He knows why she's doing this. He knows exactly what day it is. But still, he's not expecting it, how angry she is with him, frowning when he sees her eyes blaze with fury.

“Why not?”

“Because you're drunk,” Derek says, still holding her by the wrists as she struggles against him.

“Oh, okay. So let me make sure I've got this right. You'll fuck me when I'm barely eighteen, but not when I'm drunk. Forgive me, I'm just trying to find the line here,” she spits, yanking her arms out of his grasp. “So not in the mood for your moral grandstanding, Sourwolf.”

He's surprised how much the comment stings, but he knows why she's hurting, why she's spitting vitriol at him. Still, it doesn't make it any easier to hear. Stiles just obviously needs someone to take it out on.

“Are you pissed? Wouldn't blame you if you were. You can yell at me, hit me, whatever you want, I can take it. Come on, show me those teeth. Fight me, come on.”

Derek's wolf howls indignantly at the challenge, but Derek refuses to yield. “I'm not going to fight you either, Stiles.”

Stiles growls, smacking her tiny fists again his chest in frustration. She may as well be a moth beating its wings in the face of an immovable boulder. “Why not?”

“Because you're--”

“If you say it's because I'm drunk, I swear to god, I'm gonna lose it,” Stiles hisses.

“No,” Derek says quietly. The way he's cupping her face, tracing his thumb over her cheekbone, is infuriatingly soft, agonizingly gentle. “It's because you're sad.”

…

God, she hates him sometimes. She really does. It just isn't fair how he can read her like this, that she can't hide a single thing from him. All she wants is to disappear in him, all she wants is for him to make her forget, take her so hard she doesn't even know where she is, let alone what she feels. When he refuses her, she doesn't know what else to do. She needs him and he won't do a thing to help her.

“Then get out,” she seethes, stumbling to her feet. “If you're not going to give me what I want, then get the fuck out of here.”

Derek only gives her that same blank and vacant stare, tinged with what she can only interpret as pity.

“ _Get out_ ,” she shrieks, and even though she knows it's pointless, she shoves him toward the window. She knows the only reason he moves at all is because he chooses to, No way she could ever make him move with sheer physical force alone. Derek watches her for another excruciating minute, before turning and vaulting out the window without another word.

For the first time in months, she spends the night without him, all alone and passed out on her bed and wishing with every fiber of her being that he was right there next to her because she doesn't think she's ever felt so alone. So utterly by herself.

Stiles wakes up with a colossal migraine, which honestly, she should have expected, but somehow that too becomes Derek's fault because she's still pissed, okay. And god, she definitely would never have chosen to go to school, but if she had to choose between hurling in between fifth and sixth period, and her dad hovering over her while she ralfed into the toilet in her en suite bathroom, well it was obvious what she was gonna choose.

“You smell terrible,” Scott says, his nose wrinkled in obvious disgust as she slumps against her locker, hoping she might just disappear before third period starts through sheer strength of will.

“I will literally die if you keep it up with this “I smell what you did last night” bullshit.”

Scott looks at her suspiciously but doesn't pry, which Stiles is thankful for. At least she can trust Scott to be as oblivious as he always is.

She wishes the rest of the pack would do the same. It becomes glaringly obvious that although Derek might've done what she'd asked (more like yelled) and left, he'd ensured that she certainly wasn't left to her own devices. She knows when she's being babysat. For most of the morning, Stiles sees both Isaac and Boyd lurking out of the corner of her eye, but every time she turns to glare at them, they somehow disappear from her field of vision.

Stiles eventually does puke, but it's right before lunch, because the thought of eating making her stomach roll and clench nauseatingly. The last straw is Erica, who Stiles practically runs into head-first as she stumbles out of the bathroom stall to wash her hands and splash some water on her face.

“Can you please tell your dick of an alpha that I don't need a babysitter?” Stiles hisses, scowling at her and Erica's reflection in the streaked bathroom mirror. Erica looks like she just stepped off a runway. Stiles looks (and feels) like shit.

Erica just laughs and says, dripping with sarcasm, “Yeah, _sure_ , I'm definitely gonna tell Derek that. Because I hate having my head attached to my body. It's just so bulky and in the way.”

Stiles groans in frustration, but Erica follows her to trigonometry anyway.

Stiles makes it all the way through fifth period before attempting her getaway, She waits until just before the bell rings and sneaks out to the parking lot through the now-abandoned hallway. She actually thinks she's home free until she gets to the jeep and sees, of all the fucking people, _Jackson_ leaning against the hood of her car like waiting there for her is the greatest inconvenience he's ever had the misfortune to experience.

“Get out of the way,” Stiles snaps, and she attempts to open the driver-side door, but Jackson holds it shut, blocking her entry.

“Haven't you ever heard the phrase, 'Stay in school?'” Jackson asks, brushing invisible dust off his shoulder and looking bored.

“Haven't you ever heard the phrase, 'Get the fuck out of my way or I'll call animal control?'” Stiles asks loftily, wrenching the passenger door open and climbing into the front seat.

Jackson stares at her for an uncomfortably long minute, and she swears that she sees it, the reptilian blink of his eyes, and it makes her skin crawl. Then he shrugs and steps aside. “I don't really care, I just need to be able to tell my alpha I tried. God, you smell like a fucking brewery, Stilinski ”

And yeah, punching Jackson might not be the best idea she's ever had, and she's definitely, maybe, probably going to have some broken knuckles to show for it, but fuck it. It's satisfying, if not extraordinarily, shockingly painful.

“You can tell your alpha to go fuck himself.”

When Stiles gets home, she doesn't even bother taking off her shoes before climbing into her bed and covering her face with her pillows. Her hand still hurts and she knows she should do something for it, but she's too tired and too sad to care.

It's not the most restful sleep she's ever had, but still, it's hours before she wakes, and it's so dark and quiet that it takes a minute for her to remember what happened and where she is. The bed is still empty, and she's not sure why (who's she kidding – she knows exactly why) it bothers her so much, but she instantly feels that instinctual need to flee, to get the fuck out of here because she might just suffocate and die if she doesn't. That's what it feels like.

Stiles knows exactly what she wants and who she needs, but god she's going to have to eat a fucking mother lode of crow in order to get it. Because Derek never seemed to look at her like she was quite as broken as she felt. Maybe because he knew what it was like, _to be that broken_ , so maybe, just maybe, he could be the one to tell her how not to crumble under the weight of it all, those broken-doll pieces she carries around.

God, she's such an asshole.

And if that isn't shitty enough, she's about two blocks away when she hears it, the grinding of her engine followed by a long, slow screech of protest. And then, her car dies.

Her car is dead, and it's pouring rain outside. Because of course it is, because she hasn't suffered enough, karma has to kick her ass too.

By the time she reaches Derek's loft, she's soaked to the bone and shivering, and she can't tell which are tears and which are raindrops that sit heavy on her hollowed out cheekbones. Just like the first time she came here, she doesn't even get a chance to knock before the door swings open in front of her, and then it's only him, because he's there, with his soft, green eyes and broad shoulders and big hands, and jesus christ, she loves him so much.

She opens her mouth to say something, to say sorry, give her big apology, but the only thing that comes out are harsh, wracking sobs.

And suddenly nothing else matters anymore.

…

Derek can hear her coming from a mile away. By the time she's on the stairwell, her footsteps hitting the concrete, he's there, waiting. It's like slow motion when her eyes finally find his, and he's not quite sure how it happens so quickly because she's not the one with superpowers here, but then she's in his arms, shaking like a leaf and sobbing fitfully against his chest.

He thinks he hears a muffled _sorry_ , but it doesn't matter, not really. The wolf holds her up, wrapped tightly in his arms, and he shuts the door with his foot before carrying her down the long hallway into the bathroom. She's so cold, trembling in his arms, whimpering and covered head to toe in goose-flesh.

“I got your shirt wet,” Stiles says dazedly when Derek sets her down on the bathroom counter and leaves her only just long enough for him to turn the taps on.

“I'll live,” Derek says, pressing his lips to her forehead.

She's soaked straight through her clothes, so the first order of business is getting rid of them. “Arms up,” Derek commands gently, and Stiles wordlessly lifts her arms up in the air so Derek can pull her t shirt up and over her head. Her waterlogged jeans are next, lying crumpled in a heap on the floor, and then Derek is carrying her over to the bath and gingerly setting her down into the warm water like she might float away and disappear if he doesn't watch her closely enough.

He hears her stuttering exhale when the water hits, like every bone in her body is going soft at the same time. When Derek slides his hands over her shoulders, massaging gently, before settling on her scalp and rubbing steady circles with his fingertips, Stiles sighs and sinks back against the ceramic, eyes shut to everything but Derek's skin on hers, hot and searching.

“I don't know how you can do it,” Stiles mutters, and it looks like she's trying to curl in on herself, hugging her knees and trying to disappear by making herself small, but there's nowhere to go, not really. “I only lost my mom, and most of the time I feel like I can't breathe, and she's the only – I haven't lost anyone else except her.”

Derek hand goes still for a moment while he considers her words. “I don't think it works like that,” he says. “Not really. I don't think the quantity matters.” Because it hurts just the same, no matter how much you've lost compared to someone else. Hurt is hurt. It's not a competition.

Stiles is frowning thoughtfully, while Derek runs a washcloth slowly up and down her back. “But how'd you manage to survive? How'd you get up every morning and just...live with it?”

Derek simply shrugs because he doesn't know the answer, doesn't quite know what she wants him to say. It didn't hurt any less, not really, that gaping wound in his chest that the death of his family had left behind. But sometimes it was better, didn't seem to hurt so much, didn't feel as deep and empty, when she was around. “Not getting out of bed was worse. Felt like giving in,” he says simply. “I didn't wanna give in.” He's not sure if that helps any, but it's the truth at least. “You know nobody expects you to just get over it. You don't. You just learn to get through it.”

Neither one says anything else as Derek's words settle in the space between them. It's quite possibly the most he's said at one time in the entire time he's known her.

“Wow,” Stiles says finally, watching the ripples she makes swirling the bathwater with her hands. “How in the fuck did you suddenly get so wise?”

Derek blinks at her for a long time before answering solemnly. “Read it in AARP magazine.”

Stiles smiles like she's trying her very best to hide it. “Sourwolf, did you just make a joke?”

“You can't prove it,” Derek murmurs, nuzzling the top of her head. “Nobody will ever believe you.”

_…_

Derek washes her hair like it's a task that requires every bit of his meticulous concentration, and then he's running that cloth over every exposed inch of her body. Stiles tries not to moan, to make noise, but it's so difficult when his skin brushes hers, and she feels so hypersensitive just like when she used to get high fevers as a child.

The water is starting to go cold, and Stiles shivers again, her teeth already threatening to start rattling in her mouth. Of course Derek's noticed, so it's not long before she's back in his arms again, wrapped in a soft towel before being set on the bathroom counter like before. Derek's eyes rake over every inch of her, and she blushes automatically under his focused gaze, despite the fact that it's nothing new for either one of them.

She doesn't bother trying to speak when he dries her off. It's a very pleasant feeling, him gliding that soft terrycloth over her skin, until his fingers graze her swollen hand and she hisses, biting back a painful cry.

“Who'd you hit?” Derek asks, not sounding the least bit surprised when he raises her hand to his mouth and laves his tongue over her split knuckles, licking up dried blood.

Stiles keeps her eyes shut, but she shivers when a gentle kiss follows after he's finished. “Jackson.”

Derek makes an obvious noise of disapproval, but doesn't appear to see the point of lecturing her, thankfully. In her opinion, she's gotten her punishment already, the pain in her hand just bad enough to remind her how stupid she'd been to punch the facial equivalent of a brick wall.

It feels too good, letting him take care of her like this. If she wasn't feeling so utterly lost, so completely fucked up, she'd be pissed at herself for relying on him so much. But he's being so careful with her, so controlled, that she just decides to sit back and enjoy the ride.

She expects him to dress her in his clothes, and she's not disappointed. The scent of evergreen and mountain air fills her lungs when he pulls one of his threadbare sweaters over her head, and she's not exactly sure when she started needing these uncomfortably wolf-like comforts so much, but nothing really surprises her anymore. If she suddenly develops a taste for raw meat and a mysterious case of missing eyebrows, maybe then she'll start to worry about it.

“Did you eat today?” Derek's breath is hot against her ear, and she's vaguely aware of being moved, her arms looped around his neck, his arm under her knees. There's no point in lying to him, so she doesn't bother. She doesn't say anything actually, just tries to bury her face somehow even farther into the dip of his collarbone. Another disapproving rumble.

Derek sets her down on the couch and she whines, distressed at the sudden lack of contact. He's made a point to keep at least one hand on her since she blew in here like a hurricane. “I'll be right back.” There it is, his spooked animal voice. The same one he uses to calm down a rabid beta. She wonders, briefly, if she should be insulted by that, but it doesn't really matter. He's only gone for a few minutes, but it feels like an eternity to her. When he reappears in the living room, he's got a bowl of what looks like cut up berries in his hand. Vaguely, she remembers him saying he hated fruit. But Stiles likes it, and then she's wondering if this is somehow the wolf equivalent of him leaving a dead deer on her front steps. That whole providing thing.

The idea of food isn't entirely revolting, which she guesses is some improvement from the literal worst hangover of all time. The thought of eating, however, is exhausting, so all she does is stare helplessly when he places the bowl on the coffee table in front of her all expectantly. She knows what wants, what she needs but she's too embarrassed to ask for it. It's not something she asks for very often, and it's for the first time that she wishes mind-reading was a power in the werewolf arsenal.

…

Maybe werewolves can't read minds, but Derek can read Stiles like a book. She smells less sad and more anxious now, as she bites her lip in that way she does when she's nervous. Not because of him,not this time, he thinks, but sometimes she just gets stuck. Even the smallest of tasks could send her reeling, freeze her in place, and that paralyzed-deer-in-the-headlights look is usually Derek's first clue. The rapid thrum of her heartbeat somehow getting faster is another one. It doesn't happen too often, and it took a few really ugly panic attacks for them to find find something that actually worked. They don't talk about it, and maybe it's a little fucked up that they don't. But then again, in terms of everything else that's a little bit fucked up about their relationship, it's actually fairly benign. “Stiles,” Derek starts, a sharpness to his voice that wasn't there before. Stiles eyes go wide, her pupils dilating when he feels his vision go red. “ _Kneel.”_

Derek hears the way Stiles exhales, deep, and watches as her face goes slack, like all the tension's suddenly been drained out of her body. She scrambles off the couch and to her knees so quickly she practically falls to the floor. With a dreamy sigh that sounds an awful lot like relief to him, Stiles presses her cheek against his thigh, and closes her eyes.

He keeps one hand anchored in her hair, combing through the still slightly damp strands with his nails. He feeds her with the other one, slow and careful, almost tender. This isn't about him, so he tries not to think about how good Stiles's tongue feels when she licks his fingers clean after every bite.

“Good girl,” Derek says when the bowl is finally empty and Stiles's heartbeat is a slow, even thud, no longer threatening to possibly beat itself out.

“Mean it?” Stiles asks softly, leaning into the hand that's playing with her hair.

Derek's eyes are mostly closed, but he doesn't sound anywhere close to sleep when he answers. “I always mean it.”

…

As she kneels at his feet, she drifts. Lets her mind wander where it wants, but not necessarily following. The grip Derek has on her hair is grounding, and so is the taste of his skin on her tongue, all salt and sun and sweet berry juice. The praise is good, makes warmth bloom in her belly, chasing away the dread that somehow wormed it's way inside without her notice.

“What happened to her, it could happen to me. It's rare, really rare, but it's genetic.” She wasn't planning to talk. Normally she doesn't when they get like this, a rare occasion where she's lulled into calm and quiet. But it's like she can't help it. Once she starts, it's like she can't stop. “I could go crazy just like she did.”

Or their kids could get it (and jesus, that's something she's only begun to let herself think about). They could have Derek's beautiful green eyes and her history of crippling mental illness.

“I—I could forget all of this. I could forget you. _I don't want to forget_.” Now she's babbling, feels her pulse start to race as adrenaline begins pouring into her veins again. The hand he has buried in her hair stills and slides down to cup her cheek instead. He's still as a statue, so she knows she has his full attention now. “I don't want to get lost,” she says, so sad and so softly that even Derek would probably have to strain his ears to hear it.

“I wouldn't let that happen,” He offers quietly. “If you get lost, I'll find you.”

Stiles lets out another shuddering breath as his words hit her like balm on a burn. He _would_ find her, she thinks.

He really would.

…

Stiles will stay down there all night if he doesn't make her move, now that she's all blissed out and pliant on her knees in front of him. Stiles had told him he wasn't selfish enough with her, and maybe she's right. But if he was planning on being selfish, he'd keep her like this, exactly just like this. She looks so beautiful, moonlight playing in the shadows of her pale skin, and they both can't ignore the fact that it feeds right into his more primal instincts. Part of him thinks that's exactly why she likes it.

“Sleep?” Derek prompts gently. Stiles lets out a noise of protest and somehow nuzzles even deeper against his leg. She needs the rest, judging from the dark-as-bruises shadows under her eyes. And she's always been pale, but right now she looks sickly, washed out like some kind of damned ghost. He can't imagine she got much sleep passed out from too much booze, or that it was any better in her empty bed without him. So he decides not to give her a chance to argue and lifts her up instead.

Honestly she's so lax in his arms he's surprised her eyes are actually open when he sets her down. She doesn't let go, clings to him like a limpet, and whines against his throat. God, does she even realize what she does to him when she's like this?

“Stay, please?”

Like she even had to ask. Derek nods and crawls in after her to drape himself around her, maybe press his teeth into the back of her neck. Before he can say anything else, Stiles surges forward and kisses him, and the last time he tasted her feels like forever ago even though it's only been a couple of days. So he can't help it, responding the way he does, pulling her closer, kissing her harder.

Stiles whimpers against his mouth and Derek pulls back with a frustrated hiss. “I'm not fucking you tonight, Stiles.”

“I don't want you to fuck me.” It might be dark, but he can still follow that telltale blush as it spreads across her pale cheeks. From her scent alone, it seems like a lie. “I want you to make love to me.” Stiles smells ripe and needy like she always does. Practically purring like a kitten, she nuzzles against his cheek, shy in a way that feels more like she's trying to hide from him than anything else. “Is that stupid?”

Derek shakes his head, pressing his lips to the crown of her head. “No, baby. It's not stupid.”

Who is he to deny her anything right now?

…

It's so quiet in the loft, that middle-of-the-night type of quiet where everything is so still. All she hears is the combined symphony of their breathing, the occasional gasp or pant. Every touch is so slow, so careful. It feels a lot like being worshiped. Because Derek's seemingly made it his mission to kiss every inch of her. Stiles tries to be still, but she can't help squirming when his beard scratches that ticklish place below her ribs. She threads her fingers through his hair and tugs, trying to pull him back to her lips.

“No teasing,” Stiles begs with her mouth, pleads with her hands. “Not tonight.”

“It's not teasing,” Derek says. His thumbs are rubbing her hipbones like worry-stones. “You're just impatient.”

He's not wrong, but Stiles pouts anyway. This time she digs her nails into his scalp hard enough to scratch and sting. Normally this would be about the time he'd start growling at her, but he doesn't. Instead, he throws her for a loop, letting her pull him up with relative ease.

“Not tonight,” Derek agrees, claiming her mouth and plundering it with his tongue before making his way down to her neck. He doesn't even bite her, just scrapes his teeth over her shoulder before settling at her throat, but it's still enough to send a hot pulse of desire straight through her like getting shot with an arrow. Derek chuckles, because he can obviously smell her getting all wound up. He doesn't give her the chance to get annoyed because then he's rucking her shirt up over her hips and spreading her thighs.

“No teasing,” Stiles reminds him, though it comes out more of a strangled gasp when Derek thrusts two fingers inside of her. She barely gets used to the stretch before he pulls out of her. Stiles moans at the loss, but then Derek's licking his fingers clean, letting out this appreciative rumble like he's tasting something sweet.

“ _No teasing.”_ Derek repeats with a nod, leans down and whispers it against her mouth at the exact moment he thrusts inside.

God, she doesn't even care if she comes, although considering Derek seems to view it as his personal mission to get her off, it's hard to imagine she won't. It always hurts for just a second, but then it's so good when he finally moves, drags his cock against the tight walls of her cunt. The almost-too-much stretch and burn of it. This is exactly what she wants, what she needs, to take him into her body, keep him here as long as she can, as long as he lets her, because he's so close like this. But she needs him so much closer.

…

Stiles's nails somehow dig deeper into his back with every thrust of his hips. But he keeps his pace slow, steady, and they rock together just like that until he loses track of everything else but her. The way she tastes as he licks at her throat, how she feels trembling with need underneath him. What it sounds like when her breath catches in her lungs every time he hits that place inside her that always makes her scream.

She's close, he can smell it. “Stay with me,” Derek murmurs when he sees her eyelids start to close. He wants to watch. Wants to look right into her eyes while she splinters apart underneath him. “Let me see,” he says softly, peppering her jaw with feather light presses of his mouth. Stiles nods, rhythm-less and frantic, but she obeys, and Derek can't help but moan when she gazes up at him. How her pupils are dark as the sky at the new moon, glowing molten-gold almost like the eyes of one of his betas.

She's so beautiful, and somehow it manages to floor him every single time.

“Derek – I –,” Stiles voice breaks off into a harsh and sudden cry. Her hips buck jerkily when she comes, squeezing his cock so hard Derek can't help but follow after her.

Eventually they both start to calm, trading lazy kisses in between gasping attempts to catch their breath.

“Don't leave me again,” she whispers, and he knows she means more than just right now. “Even if I tell you to leave, don't believe me.”

“I won't.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” he says, sealing the oath with a kiss on her throat where he's once again left his mark on her. “But,” he says, offering her a rare soft smile. “I do have to go get something.”

Stiles lets out an irritable huff. “You just promised you weren't going to leave me. You're going to give me a complex.”

Derek rolls his eyes and tries to move off of her, but Stiles shakes her head and wraps her legs around him even tighter. “So you don't want your present then?”

Stiles's face lights up with an obvious spark of curiosity. “Present?”

…

She's much more amenable to him moving now, her eyes following him around the room. Derek digs around for just a second in his dresser drawer, and then he's back almost as quick as if he'd never left at all, placing what turns out to be a small box that looks like it's made out of silver into her lap.She recognizes the symbol on the lid, that same swirl of lines that are inked into Derek's back. The Hale symbol.

“Open it,” Derek prompts gently when all she does for probably an embarrassing amount of time is stare at it. She does, and she goes slack-jawed when she sees what's inside. It's a ring, and it looks old, and expensive.

“It's so pretty,” Stiles breathes out, unable to hide the awe in her voice. It really is.

“It's a moonstone,” Derek says, and she knows he's watching her so intently in case he's done something wrong. It's an apt name, because that's exactly what it looks like. Like he reached up and plucked it right out of the sky just for her. “It was my grandmother's.”

“Oh, Derek – it's too much. It belongs to your family, I can't –“

“Stiles,” Derek says, squeezing her hand. “It was always meant to be mine. Besides, you're my family now.” The way he says it, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, it feels like he's reached inside of her chest and squeezed her heart. It hurts in the best way.

And god he's probably so fucking sick of her crying, but she can't help it. These aren't sad tears though, so at least that's a nice change of pace. With a shaky exhale, she plucks it off the little velvet cushion and slides it onto her finger, never thinking she'd be so thankful that she'd decided to punch Jackson with her right hand.

“It looks good,” Derek says, and she wants to roll her eyes because she can hear that smug alpha pride in his voice. “But I guess I can always put it back if you don't want it –,” and he feigns grabbing her hand.

“No!” Stiles snatches her hand away and cradles it protectively to her chest. “It's mine. I want it.”

“Good,” Derek says, and the smile he rewards her with is everything.

Derek holds her while she starts to fall asleep, admiring the ring on the hand splayed over his chest.

“Are you going to do that creepy stalker thing where you watch me sleep?” Stiles mutters into his side.

“Yes, probably.”

“Okay,” she says. “Good.”

And it is. It really is.

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles's ring:
> 
> https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0050/6032/9585/products/Vintage_Moonstone_Ring_large.png?v=1537840861


End file.
